


now, close your eyes

by julieweee



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Spoilers, Gen, Mentions of death and injury, Non-Graphic Violence, Timeskip, vague-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:21:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24115678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julieweee/pseuds/julieweee
Summary: in the five years that pass in a blink of an eye, byleth dreams.
Kudos: 5





	now, close your eyes

**Author's Note:**

> i once passed a uquiz on what type of timeless space i was and never was the same person again lol 
> 
> this is messy and weird and maybe doesn't make a whole lot of sense but i wanted to get this out so. here. i love byleth.  
> listened to hot sugar - dead inside while writing this https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EoGIl2Z8DNs  
> also let me know if the tags are wrong bc i've never used them before!!

it is very dark.

that's the first thought that forms in his mind as he slowly drifts— not awake. it's too early for it, far too early. it's a precarious position in between, not quite awake and not fully asleep. he drifts to it, surfaces from the depth of sleep to come to this — it is very dark. the darkness is like a treacle, thick and viscous, sticking to him and pulling him back down.

_sleep_ , it whispers. sleep for a little longer. he does not resist; he's so very tired still, after all. he closes his eyes and melts in the black again.

*

when he opens his eyes again, he is surrounded by white. it's everywhere; in the air, on the earth, grinds on his teeth, has seeped into the soil and poisoned it with death. there's no sun, no stars — _fell star_ , something whispers to him, _fell star fell starfellstar —_ the only true thing is the white that envelops him in a tender embrace. it’s painfully bright, and he squints, blinking. he knows, somehow — it's cold. he doesn't feel it, doesn't feel the harsh wind that bends the sparse thin trees to the ground, doesn't feel the bite of the frost, but he knows it just as well.

the only thing that's not white is a splotch of black, a hint of comfortable familiar darkness, somewhere further up ahead. it's moving — forward still, away from him, through the shrill howl of wind and the burn of cold. he watches it sway from side to side, watches it stumble on its lonely path until his eyes tire of the white and its shine.

it feels important, for some reason, and also wrong, that it walks so alone, but that black is so very far away, and he doesn't know how to move. the darkness catches him in its gentle cradle, and he sleeps again.

*

it is not quiet in the nothing he drifts in, no. the darkness sings to him, murmurs a quiet song. or is it him who sings? they've dissolved in one another, he into the darkness and it into him, and the hum of the melody echoes in his mind.

it's simple. it's very dear to him, but he doesn't know why. he floats in the melody and black, and hums it back. he's weightless here — or has he always been? he remembers hurting, having a body, too heavy and clumsy, not enough and too much; and the darkness laps at the memory, washes it away.

_sleep_ , the melody sings as its sweet syrup fills his mouth.

*

the hands are not his but feel like his still. the hair that's gathered in them is soft, luscious green and precious. he's not him, not really, but he is. he combs through the hair carefully, separates them into strands to braid.

"now sit still," he says. the voice is not his either, but it'll do. the hands twist the locks around, the movement easy and practiced. "sit still or the braid won't be pretty."

"but it's been so long already," another voice whines. the green in the hands pulls, trying to escape, but he reins it back. "can't i go yet?"

"no."

"but mo- _om_."

two ribbons go into the braid too, woven in with easy skill. white and pink, bright against the mellow green. the voice — that's not his but still is — starts singing, a soft wordless melody. same notes, again. he hums the melody, too, following the voice's lead. not for long; he's still exhausted. once he closes his eyes, he falls asleep again.

*

"this smells good," a voice says. he cannot put a face to it, a body, a person — it's all blurred together and all he can see are two porcelain cups before him, filled with hot steaming tea.

it's a chamomile. he knows it because he picked chamomile specifically. he thought about getting mint, but its taste would be too sharp, too cold on the tongue. chamomile works better. for what? he can't remember. he's sure it'll come back to him soon. it has to.

"i wonder how it tastes," the voice says, quieter, just a hint rueful.

*

the last time he slept like this, he thinks, as the dark cradles him, he died. men reached into his chest and tore his heart out, pulled his spine and yanked his ribs out one by one, until there was nothing of him left anymore. they left him to slowly bleed out on his bed, as he gazed at the ceiling, counting his last breaths, until the world ended and a new one began.

something sharp prods at his side amid the darkness. familiar. second nature by now. he remembers curling his fingers around it, remembers the cold orange glow. the lurch in his chest and a moment of fear that always followed. it never ceased being painful, and twitched in agony, begging for release.

*

"our next job is in the kingdom."

so it is. they move out at dawn, leaving remire village behind. the job is simple, a group of bandits that's taken a liking to some minor noble house's lands. they deal with them quickly, and set on to a different destination, never in one place for too long.

that's the end of it.

*

there are people here. blurred colors that are moving too fast for his tired mind to comprehend, so instead he watches the table laid out before him. a large map covers it, and the people on it, smaller, carved out of wood, simplified, are much easier to watch. some are colored in blue, gathered in a small group close to the sea. many more are red, standing in opposition.

he wonders — does this map show where he is?

a figure leans over the table; their hair is the same flaming red as the wooden ones on the table. they're talking, but the words all blur into one, like the people in the room do, and he blinks, slowly. he thinks of the darkness. much more peaceful than this, easier to be in.

the figure says the next words clearly, enunciating each one, as if talking to him specifically:

"his highness is,"

waits for a little while. he closes his eyes, waiting for the black to wash everything away and rock him in its gentle embrace again. the figure gathers itself.

"dead," they say.

something wells up in his chest, but the darkness lulls him to sleep too quickly for him to understand what it is.

*

_his highness_ , he thinks later, when he's allowed to open his eyes again to look at the darkness around him. the words are familiar but meaningless all the same. he exhales. sinks again.

*

he cannot say how long he's been here, drifting between reality and dream — time has lost all meaning to him even before darkness claimed him. he's sure it's important, the passage of time and how much of it has elapsed, but cannot say why. it's not like he has someone he could say it to.

bathed in the soothing touch of nothingness, he's alone.

he saw that black spot among the harsh white again. closer, this time. it kept on moving, unyielding; until it fell on the ground and stopped, frozen by the white around it. if only he could call to it, somehow — but no words come to his mind. no names. he must've had one, too, but it continues to elude him.

*

"please," she begs. "just save my child. i don't care what— just save him, _please_ —"

*

he lies at the bottom of a canyon. his whole body hurts like nothing he's ever felt before, and where it doesn't hurt he can't feel it at all. this part, somehow, the absence of pain, is more frightening. breathing comes hard, ragged, a wheeze to each gasp of air. he can't move. can't speak or call for help. his sight is full of dots, black and white, and he can't blink them away. even then, he’s surrounded by bare rocks. no one to see, no one to call for. he's done everything he could and it wasn't enough, and he cannot do anything at all now.

but he's alive, because it hurts and he's breathing. still alive. that has to matter. right?

the darkness hushes him again. he falls.

*

this is the closest he's seen it. it's not as black as it seemed from far away; there are speckles of gray and blue over it, a spot of pale gold. it looks like a human. maybe it once was.

"father," it gasps. "stepmother. glenn—"

the voice makes him frown. it's closer to an animal guttural growl than it is to a human talking — those he's heard already, at least — but lying beneath it, just under the surface, is something he's forgot. something he should remember, and he frowns. if he could maybe recall what it was like to have a body and move, he'd be able to come closer still. look at its face. kneel next to it in the white and huddle for warmth. he doesn't feel the cold, but it must be able to, and it's still so very white.

"i'll bring you her head," it growls. "i swear it."

he's heard it before, but where?

*

or was it more than just one name?

*

it goes on for a while. time means truly nothing here, to him. moments melt into one, colors blur into another, sounds dissolve into a melody that the darkness hums to him. the only constant thing is it — the nothingness, void that surrounds him.

he remembers a touch. gloved, and thus not enough. a flash of orange always in the periphery — then blue. a weight on his knees. cold stone against his back. voices, voices, voices, all too different to remember each separately. he never remembers the words, except for two — _fell star_ , said in fear and hatred. colors are what keeps him awake, mostly, because colors are easier to understand. 

blue, red, yellow; green, white, pink again, but also orange and bone-white. black, sometimes. gold, but only a little.

a smile, never quite reaching the eyes. darkness in them, not like the ones that nurses him. poisonous. never forgotten.

*

he still thinks about _his highness_. dead. did his highness die like he did, each bone torn out of his body, maimed and destroyed? he hopes not. it was a terrible way to die, he remembers; he wouldn't wish it upon anyone else. if death is to be, he'd like it merciful. in his sleep, in this state of half-awake, never quite aware.

it's almost peaceful, if it's like that — but death never really is.

he misses the green and its softness on his hands.

*

"the golden deer," he says. his voice is very even. it's not warm, not cold. it's neutral to the point of indifference. it feels right. it feels wrong.

"are you certain in your choice?"

he nods. the same melody comes to mind. he can't understand why.

*

except no, that's not what he says. he says,

"the black eagles."

or no,

"the blue lions."

or was the first one right? he can't remember. sometimes his voice differs, but it's only in pitch, in timbre, never in its apathy and just, _lack_ of anything.

" _the blue lions_ ," he tries to say again, just to feel his mouth curl around the words and sounds, but the darkness swallows it all, pulls him below, ignores his weak struggle — and he drowns.

*

"to think," a cough, a wheeze, a dying breath, "that the first time i'd see you cry would be for me."

no. _no_ , he refuses. he denies this one. he cannot let it come to pass. cannot remember it. he pushes it away, the weight on his knees and the red on his hands, the tears on his cheeks and the rain bearing down his back. if he can just go back, return to the gentle embrace of the darkness—

but it's cruel like that. the darkness that nurtures him, one that sings lullabies to him and holds him close, it's the same one that pins him here, in this moment right now and back then. he doesn't want to remember, live through it again, but he can't run away from it, either.

he's forced to watch. he's forced to hold it in his arms. to listen to,

"thanks, kid."

and to cry.

*

again. again. again. again, until the pulse in his veins slows and a migraine builds behind his eyes. again. further this time, again, until he finds a future he can accept. again, again, again. time grinds to a halt once more as he shatters this world and demands a new one. again. again. again.

*

what will you do when it all fails?

*

wordlessly, he kneels. he gathers the body in his hands. he breaks away the feathered arrow ends to make it easier for him to push them through the flesh and skin. four total. one went too deep, against the bone. he can't pull it out either, not without leaving a wound that will never heal, so he leaves it in. a lance he pulls out in one abrupt motion. it doesn't bleed — almost. the wounds left by swords he ignores. he covers the ugly gash that goes over from the shoulder to the hip with the fur cape.

he pulls the head into his lap. he covers the eyes with his hand.

"i am sorry it had to end like this," a voice says. it's not his.

*

"we don't have to fight!" someone yells,

"step aside," another answers,

"you," a third one declares, "are a monster,"

he's locked in the middle of it. he wants to scream.

*

a father, a brother, a mother, eleven siblings all killed in service of something greater, a dear friend and a loyal servant sworn to protect and killed in the name of it, childhood shattered and life ended, fire, blood, death — it all flashes through his mind, too quick for him to comprehend, too painful for him to want to; he tries to close his eyes, to cover his ears, but he can't. not when the darkness demands him to watch and listen.

he wants to go back to sleep. it doesn't let him. the melody is so very loud in his head.

*

he gasps, sputtering in the thick syrupy darkness. it's everywhere, in his eyes, nose, ears, mouth — he cannot breathe. he cannot breathe, and he cannot break away, he's going to die here except he can't _turn back the hands of time_ , can't deny this future and this death and choose a different one,

he's going to—

*

he opens his eyes.

he's in his room. it's the same it was when he went to sleep. he's lying in bed — this month it's his turn to sleep in the bottom bunk. his sister is snoring quietly above him. there's a nightlight plugged into a socket by the door, casting a soft orange glow over the floor and the walls. he lies awake under the heavy blanket, one that's supposed to help him sleep, and listens to his sister breathing. outside, wind rustles in the trees, coming into leaves already. it's early spring, his mother's favorite season, when the small young leaves are so delicate on the branches and the birds start chirping in earnest.

he gets up. slowly and quietly. he doesn't want to disturb his sister, so he walks carefully, remembering which floorboards squeak and which don't. he pushes the door open, sneaks out and closes it behind. he crosses the hall. pushes another door open.

he tugs at the blanket and climbs onto the bed. his mother startles awake.

"mhm, can't sleep?" she murmurs. his father snores, much louder than his sister, and turns in his sleep.

"i had a nightmare."

"aw, baby. come here. we'll keep them at bay."

he snuggles into his mother's embrace, between her and his father, grateful. he doesn't dream after that.

*

he breathes in and starts coughing immediately. it's cold. wet. painfully bright. he hurts, but the whole of him does, and it’s a relief.

"h-hey! goddess above, what are you even, how did you get into here—"

"dimitri," he rasps, still coughing up water. a man pulls him out of the river. he's shivering, clothes and hair plastered to his skin. "i have to— dimitri."

he's not sure if it's water or tears on his face.


End file.
